Empty
by Kgirl1
Summary: The clinic is a nice one, for once, the kind Hera would never let them splurge on if she needed care herself. It takes nearly all the credits they have, but Hera makes sure Sabine will never find that out. Takes place pre-Rebels.


Hera stands outside Sabine's freshly-assigned bunk, hefting a box under her arm. Kanan and Zeb are playing sabacc in the common room and, given the way Kanan's losing, will be for a while, which is perfect, because she needs this time to be uninterrupted.

"Knock knock," she calls, tapping on the door. "Can I come in?"

"Sure." The reply is muffled, and the door slides open. Sabine's sitting on her bed, staring blankly. She's oddly quiet, for someone her age—granted, Zeb was quiet when he first joined too, but it's been almost a week now, and Hera had been hoping that the girl would warm up.

She puts on her most chipper smile. "Hi there."

Sabine nods.

"So, I know you're still pretty new to the ship, and this might be awkward to talk about, but we're both girls, right?" Hera shifts the box on her hip, and Sabine gives a faint nod. "So, girl stuff."

Hera plunks the box down on the bunk—sanitary napkins, pantiliners, and tampons, all bunched together and crowded to the top. Sabine glances at them, her expression unreadable.

"I usually keep these in the fresher, but, I figured you would want some to store wherever you need," Hera says. "Just let me know if there's anything you don't use, or if you need something else…"

She trails off, unable to think of another period-related scenario but wishing that she could, if for nothing but the creation of dialogue between them. Sabine's still staring into the box.

"That… sound good?" Hera asks, because she's getting the sense that Sabine doesn't want to discuss her monthly cycle any more than absolutely necessary.

Sabine picks up a colorfully wrapped tampon and flicks it between her fingers, then lets it drop.

"Okay, well… if that's all," Hera says, and starts moving towards the door. When her hand is on the switch to open it, Sabine speaks up.

"Hera."

Hera turns around; Sabine's staring at the floor.

"I'm pregnant."

Her voice is hollow, and her hair hides her face.

Hera stills. The world slows down.

"Oh."

It's the only sound she can make. Sabine doesn't so much as shift in the chair. Hera takes one step closer, then another, until she knows Sabine can see her boots, a foot away from her own. Sabine's eyes dart up just long enough for Hera to see terror before she ducks her head back down. Hera reaches out to touch her shoulder but then refrains, choosing instead to sit next to her.

"What can we do to help?" she asks. Sabine jerks her head as if startled, and she turns to Hera with wide eyes. There's a scrim of courage on her face, but her hands are shaking.

"I… I…" She's stammering, pale, and Hera can't help herself—she lays her hand on top of Sabine's.

"Whatever decision you want to make, we'll support you," she says softly. "However we can."

Sabine looks at Hera with a lifetime's worth of pain in her eyes. "I barely know you."

The hopelessness in her voice, the complete loss of trust that Hera knows comes with being on your own too long, nearly breaks her heart. She's heard that same flat apathy, that same suspicion, in Zeb and even in Kanan, at the start; and just as she has with them, she knows she's going to do something about it with Sabine.

Sabine's pulled her hand away by now and has brought her knees into her chest, sitting with her arms folded across them, staring back at the floor.

Hera purses her lips.

"Do you know how long it's been?"

Sabine's voice is small. "Two months."

Hera nods, considering this. After they've both stared at the floor for a stretch of minutes, she clears her throat.

"Well, there's plenty of space on the ship for one more," she says. Sabine steals a disbelieving glance at her.

"I also have contacts who could set up an adoption," Hera continues, and then hesitates. "Otherwise… I hear the procedure is easiest in the first trimester."

She might have imagined it, but Sabine seems to flinch. Despite her own sorrow, Hera knows she must be feeling a hundred times worse.

"I'm so sorry, Sabine. It's a decision no one should have to make," she says, and watches, but Sabine doesn't lift her head. "Whatever yours is, we'll support you."

Sabine's hair shifts in an imperceptible nod, then falls back to hide her face. Hera stands up.

"I'll be in the cockpit if you want to talk," she says. The door closes behind her, leaving silence.

* * *

Sabine doesn't come to the cockpit, but she does appear a few days later, nervous in a way Hera has never seen her.

"Hera…" she hugs her arms across her chest. "Can we talk?"

They haven't talked—sure, they've spoken, but haven't really _talked—_ since that first conversation. Hera nods and follows her to Sabine's cabin, where they stand in front of her bed.

"I…" Sabine hugs herself tighter, like she can fold out of her own existence. Her gaze is toward the ground, her voice small.

"I can't do it."

Hera feels her heart wrench. "Okay," she says, softly, like her voice could break the fragile thread of trust strung between them.

Sabine doesn't lift her eyes. "That's all."

Hera nods. "I'll… make an appointment at our next stop," she says.

Sabine's lower lip quivers, its up-and-down motion imitating a nod. "Okay."

* * *

The clinic was chosen; the city reputable and safe. Eleven hours in hyperspace and then they'd land, where Hera would accompany Sabine to the clinic while Zeb and Kanan handled the job they'd come for. Hera has it all planned out—the date and time are seared in her mind—but for once, the plan going awry isn't what she's worried about.

She finds herself in the same position she did last week, standing outside Sabine's door, nervous for a vastly different reason, and knocks.

It opens.

"Hey," Hera says, leaning against her doorframe.

"Hey," Sabine says, without looking up. She's crouched at the foot of her bed, painting the wall adjacent.

Hera clears her throat and checks over her shoulder to make sure they're alone. "So, the appointment's tomorrow."

"Okay," Sabine says. She squints at the wall, her forehead creased in contemplation.

Hera senses that she should go, but she hesitates. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She'd meant the procedure itself, and that's what makes Sabine's reply so shocking.

"It was a Stormtrooper when I was in the Academy," she says. "Didn't know how to take no for an answer." Her voice is hard and flat, and she shifts the can of paint from hand to hand, avoiding Hera's eyes. Hera's hand rises to her mouth.

"Oh, Sabine," she whispers. Tears spark her eyes.

Sabine stares at the wall, her voice trembling. "I really don't feel like talking about it."

Hera blinks rapidly, swallows a sob, and hovers in the doorframe. After a moment, she moves forward, and puts her hand on Sabine's shoulder. Sabine twitches, but doesn't brush her away, and something about that feels like progress. Hera stays for a moment longer and then nods, lifting her hand.

"Try to get some sleep tonight, alright?"

Sabine nods, and Hera shuts the door.

* * *

The clinic is a nice one, for once, the kind Hera would never let them splurge on if she needed care herself. It takes nearly all the credits they have, but Hera makes sure Sabine will never find that out.

She waits in the little room, watching the clock, trying not to tap her fingers and toes as she prays to the Force and the stars.

It's over in less than an hour.

The doors open, and the doctor walks out with Sabine, who looks queasy and pale but otherwise fine.

"It all went as planned," he tells her, and Hera finds a lot of irony in that word, planned. Sabine moves woodenly, from the doctor's side to Hera's, as he recites various bullet points about what they should expect and prescribes something for the pain.

Hera nods intently, but all of her attention is on Sabine, who seems fine if you discount catatonia.

When the doctor leaves, Hera squeezes her hand.

"Everything okay?"

Sabine doesn't reply; her hand hangs loosely in Hera's. Hera purses her lips and guides them toward the exit.

The second they're outside the door, a sob rises out of Sabine, and she brings her face down into her hands. Hera, who's been expecting this, immediately pulls her in. She strokes her hair and whispers in her ear, anything she can do to soothe the girl. For once, Sabine lets herself be held, holding as tightly on to Hera as Hera is to her.

Clinging to each other, they make their way back to the _Ghost,_ Sabine stumbling against Hera's side with one hand on her stomach. They make it as far as Hera's bedroom, Sabine's being just that much farther, and Hera guides her in and lays her down. Sabine's whimpering, tears sticky on her cheeks, mumbling something that's only half-coherent, so Hera brushes her bangs away from her face and tells her that she'll be okay.

The doctor's prescribed a pain medication that they'll never be able to afford, not after a thousand jobs, so Hera brings a cool rag and the last dregs of whatever they've got in the medbay. Her own pain tolerance has climbed over the years along with Zeb's, and Kanan's is nearly inhuman, so they don't keep much on hand, but everything she can find goes to Sabine.

The girl chokes the pills down with a glass of water, turns on her side and curls up with her knees hugged into her chest.

Hera sits down on the side of the bed and strokes her back until the sobs give way to slumber.

* * *

Sabine sleeps through dinner and wakes up the next morning, and they don't talk about it.

Not when Hera hears her vomiting in the fresher for the third time that day.

Not when she looks paler than Lothal's moons at the mission briefing.

Not when they sit together at dinner and she hasn't eaten a thing.

Kanan's been casting looks at Hera all day, with the deliberately clear message of _What the hell is going on,_ and she's been responding as vaguely as she can.

 _Sabine's… going through something,_ she finally tells him after dinner, when Sabine leaves her full plate and heads straight for the fresher. _She'll be fine._

Kanan lifts a dubious eyebrow but says nothing; he trusts her, especially when it comes to the only other girl on their ship.

Sabine's door is shut, when Hera goes by it, and they still haven't talked about it; and she starts to think that maybe they never will.

* * *

It's years, more than 10 years later, when Hera hears Sabine speak those words again. She's just put her own little one to bed, and they're catching up over the holo like they try to once a week. There's a lull in the conversation in which Sabine looks down, then bashfully up, then bites her lip and says,

"I'm pregnant."

There's a barely-restrained grin on her lips, and her expression is bright and joyful, and Hera's eyes fill with tears for an incredibly different reason from the first time. She claps a hand to her mouth; Sabine's splits in a full grin.

"Oh, Sabine," Hera says, feeling her heart burst and ache all at once. "I'm so happy for you."

She's happy because she knows this baby comes from love, to a mother who's been wanting him or her for months and a father who will love the child as much as he loves his wife. She's happy because she knows this baby will grow up safe, and loved, and wanted, and maybe a little too familiar with explosives for a youngling but hey, no parent is perfect, Force knows she certainly isn't. She's happy because this time, her surrogate daughter is ready for it, for every joy, frustration, and sorrow to come.

"Thank you," Sabine says, and then her face falls somber. "Hera, I…" She trails off, looks down, and then starts again. "The first time…"

Hera's breath catches in her throat. "Oh, love, we don't have to—"

"No, we do," Sabine says. Her throat bobs. "I never thanked you. I was scared, and ashamed, and I thought that if I didn't talk about it, it would just go away, and by the time I realized I needed to thank you, it was too late. So, thank you."

The tears flicker in Hera's eyes. "You're welcome," she whispers.

Sabine scrubs beneath her eyes, blinking rapidly.

"Damn hormones," she says.

Hera can't help but laugh. "Just wait until morning sickness."

Sabine makes a face.

"Don't worry," Hera says. "I'll come in for that."

"You will?"

"Of course I will. When are you due?"

Sabine gives her the date, and Hera writes it down, and they chitchat for a while longer about genders and names and repainting the room that will become the nursery, the latter of which is most exciting for Sabine.

Eventually, the hour grows late.

Sabine gives Hera an apologetic smile. "I've gotta go," she says. Hera looks at the chrono and realizes she's forgotten the time difference between them.

"Okay," she says. "I love you."

"I love you too," Sabine says. She smiles, and then she's gone.

Hera is there for the birth and for the resulting aftermath, the endless crying, the sleepless nights. Sabine is exhausted and overjoyed in the way only a new parent can be, and Hera knows that the last doubts, last what-ifs, last vestiges of regret are gone. It's taken over ten years and a new baby, but they've finally closed the chapter on the baby that might have been.


End file.
